


if you could feel my heartbeat now

by feistymuffin



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 21:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: Hank is sick, and Connor won't let him go it alone.





	if you could feel my heartbeat now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coconber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coconber/gifts).



> this is a (belateddd ;;;; *cough*) birthday fic for my lovely friend coconber, who was super patient about waiting while i finished this c: i hope you like it, Blueberry! <3

“ _—ome to the Detroit Morning Show, folks! The time is eight-oh-one, and let’s get right into it with the weather this morning. It’s looking like a brisk day for February out there, a high of twenty-seven degrees with a low of nineteen, partly cloudy—a little breezy with winds up to ten clicks and a chance of snow in the evening. Tomorrow we’re looking at some scattered snow throughout the day and even colder temps, low of eleven and a high of fifteen with a wind chill of nine degrees—_ ”

Hank’s palm brings the radio tirade to a halt, and he’s barely lifted his head from the pillow before letting it drop again with a groan. His mind is foggy and dull from sleep, his thoughts slow to form in the dark bedroom as he tries to drum up the urge to get ready for work. He briefly wagers on the merit of staying in bed but he knows if he doesn’t show up at the station by 8:30 then Connor will more than likely come and find him.

The subtle pain clinging to his cranium becomes a full-blown headache when Hank finally levers himself to sit upright in bed, and he holds a hand to his broiling forehead with a frown. He’d been feeling unwell the night before, but since he’d had three beers before bed he had played it off as a bad buzz. Now, though, with the liquor well and truly gone from his system, he’s less sure.

 _It’s probably just a cold. Suck it up,_ he grumbles internally, sniffling a little to clear his nose, and hauls his body from the bed with some difficulty. Aches have settled in his muscles, making movement a tiresome and heavy ordeal, but as Hank hobbles down the hallway he’s hoping a shower will fix that.

He spends too long under the hot, merciful spray, but by the time he’s leaving the house—at a tardy 8:47, with a predictable text from Connor at 8:34 wondering where he is—his body feels less like someone used it as a punching bag all night. The shower’s steam cleared up his sinuses quite a bit, which he’s grateful for, but in return that means his nose is running. A lot.

Even though he blows his nose three times before heading out and twice in the car while driving, Hank is still sniffling irritatingly often when he walks out of the elevator and into the precinct. He hadn’t had the thought to check his appearance after his shower, simply running a comb through his long, grey hair and brushing his teeth in the fogged-up mirror, but as he walks to his desk he thinks maybe he ought to’ve. Tina and Chris, having a conversation over near Chris’ desk, look up and give him worried glances when he passes them to where Connor sits waiting and Hank resists hunching his shoulders to his ears at the concern in their eyes.

_Jesus, do I look that fuckin’ bad?_

Slumping into his chair with a tired huff, Hank peers across the space between his desk and Connor’s to find the android staring back, LED whorling a pensive yellow. He’s pristine, as usual, but today instead of being an unnoteworthy facet of Connor’s many physical aspects Hank just finds the information grating to his downtrodden health.

 _Does he have to look so damn perfect?_ The thought appears before he can wrangle it back into the recesses of his mind, and Hank spends a long, tired minute willing the words back out of existence.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor offers with a little smile, LED still spinning. Once Hank grunts in a somewhat amiable way, his partner continues unabashedly, “Your body temperature is distressingly high.”

It seems he’s had the good sense not to mention Hank’s lateness, something the detective is thankful for. The last thing he needs right now is nagging. “Fantastic,” Hank grunts again, poking his computer terminal to life and typing in his password. He has to blink several times to clear the tired, heavy blur over his eyes before he can enter the right combination of letters, and out of the side of his vision he watches Connor’s face crease with consternation. “What?”

“You’re displaying a worrisome amount of symptoms for the flu, Lieutenant,” Connor replies.

“M’fine,” Hank mutters, sniffling, and grabs a tissue from his desk to blow his nose again.

The android won’t be so easily dissuaded, though, and persists, “You should be at home recuperating.”

“And you’re imagining things,” Hank tells him gruffly. Before Connor can try to persuade him he asks, “What’s the word on that search warrant for the double homicide?”

Connor looks fully prepared to argue, but he seems to change his mind and instead his mouth flattens for an imperceptible moment. “The process seems to be held up at City Hall by a certain councilwoman, the very same one whose nephew is implicated in the crime.”

Hank scoffs and immediately regrets it when his pounding head throbs with the minor noise. “This is ridiculous.”

“Some people tend to be more stubborn than others, Lieutenant,” Connor offers. Hank knows he isn’t imagining the not-so-narrow jab at himself, but lets it slide.

They make it through a whole seventeen minutes of quiet work, Hank slowly drifting further and further into a personal hell comprised of swollen glands and sniffling misery, before Connor speaks up again. “Lieutenant, have you eaten this morning?”

At the sound of his voice Hank’s frail train of thought completely derails while he reads over the case notes. The mere mention of food brings a tight, sickening curl of nausea to Hank’s gut, and he swallows the queasiness that rises up his throat. He hadn’t been able to stand the sight of food at home, having given his pantry and cupboards a half-hearted browse before acknowledging he wasn’t willing to even try stomaching any of it, and had simply left for work.

“No.”

“The daily recommended caloric intake for a man of your age group and size—”

“Oh hell, spare me the facts, alright, Connor?” Hank snaps irritably, and Connor’s mouth shuts abruptly with an unimpressed expression on his baby face. “I know, okay? Relax. I’m alright.” He says the words with forced surety, but despite his bravado his illness is becoming a bit too hard to ignore. Hank sniffles and sighs at Connor’s patient, if slightly irked, expression and he adds in a quiet tone, “I couldn’t eat.” It sounds more disconsolate than he means, but it’s far too late to take it back.

“I think you should go home and rest, Lieutenant,” Connor says, equally quiet.

 _And I think you should mind your own business,_ Hank wants to spit, but he can tell by the soreness of his body, by his roiling stomach, by the heat of his brow and the flush of his skin that he is not, in fact, alright. It’s hardly past 9:30 and his energy is nonexistent, he’s even grumpier than usual, and he’s certain that if he put his head down and shut his eyes, he could sleep the entire day away right on his desk.

“There’s work to do,” he argues with another sniffle, a feeble attempt to deny one last time, but now he _really_ sounds miserable and by the pleased, slight little curve of Connor’s lips Hank can see the battle has been lost.

“I’ll drive you home, Lieutenant,” Connor says, rather than addressing his weak dispute, and gets to his feet. Wearily Hank follows at a much slower, achier pace— _Why_ didn’t he take any painkillers before coming to work?—and doesn’t bother arguing anymore as Connor leads the way back to the elevator. When the android holds out an expectant hand Hank wordlessly drops his keys into his palm, and he’s rewarded with another small smile.

The drive is speedy and painless back to his house, the traffic rather mild before the noon-hour rush and after the morning scramble, and their conversation is negligible as Hank sits crabbily sniffling in the passenger seat, trying to fight down ebbing and waxing waves of upset in his stomach. Connor’s handling of his car is precise, methodical and succinct and even with his perfect, law-abiding driving Connor still gets him home in record time.

“What are you gonna do?” Hank asks his partner as he kills the engine.

Connor turns to him curiously, palms flat on his thighs. “What do you mean?”

Hank waves at Connor lamely, inarticulately, as though it will convey his thoughts. “Y’know. How will you get back to the station?”

“I’m not,” Connor says, and opens the door to get out. Hank, frowning, rushes to clamber out of the car as well, ignoring the biting wind that cuts right through all his clothes and tenses every muscle in his back with a full-body shiver. At his clear confusion the android takes pity on him and adds across the car hood, “I’ve cleared our absences with Captain Fowler. I’m going to assist you in getting well.”

Hank snorts, but with a stuffy nose and a blotchy face he doesn’t think it carries the same derision as usual. “I don’t need to be babied, Connor. I can get better on my own. I just need a day or two in bed and I’ll be right as rain again.”

“Even so, Lieutenant,” Connor responds, sounding a little amused, and leads the way to Hank’s front door. “You could do with some “babying,” as you put it.”

Although he feels like death on two legs, Hank is certain that he should be offended by that comment in some way as he trails after Connor into his house, but he can’t seem to figure out how. They’re greeted by a peppy Sumo when they enter, who’s obviously delighted to see Connor, and Hank tries not to empathize too heavily with his dog when Connor immediately bends down to give him generous scratches at his ruff.

“Good boy,” Hank grumbles when Sumo sits to the side of the entryway, and pats his broad, furry head before shutting the door. When he turns around again Connor is kneeling down at Hank’s feet and Hank, a man who by all means should be insurmountably immune to such things at his age, feels his body grow warmer at the sight. “Connor, what the f—”

“Lift your foot, please, Lieutenant,” Connor requests, hands deftly untying his shoelaces, and looks up at him with wide, simplistically innocent brown eyes. At Hank’s dumbfounded silence he prods, “I’m taking off your shoes.”

Heat floods over Hank’s chest and neck, worsening his fever considerably, and he keeps both feet adamantly on the floor. “I know you’re—That’s not… Connor, I can take off my own damn shoes—”

“I agree, Lieutenant, but indulge me,” the android replies, and waits. The longer he looks up from such a position the longer Hank’s mind has to process the visual in a completely separate, thoroughly unacceptable way, and begrudgingly he lifts his leg to allow Connor to slip the shoe from his left foot, and then his right.

Connor’s smile, when Hank allows himself to glance down again, is probably worth the aggravation of being coddled but he’s still grateful when Connor is standing upright beside him once more.

“Do you even know how to take care of someone?” Hank can’t help asking after a brief silence.

Connor turns a bemused expression on him. The android blinks a couple times as his temple spins merrily from blue to yellow and blue again, and then he says, “Yes. I’ve just downloaded a full database of homemaking and personal care software.”

“Great,” Hank mutters. His cheeks get a little warmer when Connor’s gaze becomes a little too friendly, roaming down his body and up again to fix Hank with a stern stare before he touches the back of his hand briefly to Hank’s forehead. “What _now_?”

“Your temperature is still very high. You should be in bed,” Connor murmurs, and takes Hank’s arm without so much as a “please” to drag him with artificial— _Appealing,_ a tiny, familiar voice whispers in the back of his bleary brain, which Hank completely ignores—strength into the house and down the hall to his bedroom.

“Jesus, Connor, my goddamn legs still work,” Hank grouses. Regardless of his protest Connor pulls him the entire way to his bedroom and then releases him, leaving Hank with a fleeting, unwelcome wish that the constriction of Connor’s fingers would last just a little longer on his hot skin.

“Into bed,” Connor coaxes him, his voice gentler than Hank’s ever heard it, and presses a hand flat against the centre of his chest to gently nudge him toward the bed. At once Hank’s eyes dart up to meet Connor’s at the touch and his stomach, already tumultuous, lurches dangerously.

“Okay,” Hank croaks complacently, and sniffles. _Too_ complacently, but with Connor touching him like that he thinks there’s a lot that the android could make him do.

 _I’m delirious,_ he thinks, trying to reason away the soft, unbearably human look in Connor’s eyes, and starts shucking off his jacket before he can do something stupid like lean into his strong hand. It falls from his body when he removes his jacket anyway, also removing any chance Hank had of remaining impartial to the touch when Connor’s fingertips drift down his chest before dropping away completely.

“Your button-down as well,” Connor says when he starts to pivot toward the bed, eyeing the garment and looking up to meet Hank’s incredulous stare. “My database dictates that excessive layering is not advisable for people sick with influenza, for temperature regulation purposes.”

“Your database doesn’t know every damn thing,” Hank grunts, but obligingly sheds his button-down shirt until he’s left in the grey t-shirt beneath and his jeans and socks. He feels a little more chilled without the extra clothing so he turns to climb into bed but he’s stopped again by Connor’s light touch on his arm. “God damn it, Connor, _what_?”

“Jeans, too,” Connor says with a straight face, and then _smiles_ like he’s not steadily undressing Hank.

Hank hesitates as he feels his body blaze further past its feverish heat before starting to unfasten his belt and jeans with frustration—sexual or otherwise, he has it in spades—bleeding out of every pore. “This is probably some kind of harassment, you know,” he tells his partner. It’s hardly more than a polysyllabic grunt, Hank will acknowledge, but Connor is unfazed both by the comment and his tone.

Once he’s kicked off his pants Hank immediately turns and crawls into his bed, heart beating unnecessarily hard under his ribs. This time he isn’t stopped and for that he couldn’t be more thankful, since it gives him the opportunity to hide himself under the covers and away from Connor’s penetrative, puppyish eyes that follow his every move.

“Would you like something to eat?” Connor asks, standing motionless at his bedside while he shuffles to sit up against the headboard. “Broth-based soups and fluids are recommended, but if you don’t currently have any I can—”

“I have some,” Hank interrupts, and Connor blinks, “but I’m not hungry.” In emphasis his insides churn with unease at the thought of food, even as his stomach grumbles emptily. At Connor’s pointed look Hank sighs, sniffles and presses, “I’m serious, I don’t think I can eat without chucking it all back up.”

“You should at least try,” the android replies, placating and just a little chastising. When his expression doesn’t waver in the slightest Hank sighs again and waves a limp, permissive hand, and Connor offers a small smile before leaving the room.

Hank sniffles and listens to the lazy _clik clik clik_ of Sumo’s claws on the linoleum, probably trailing Connor into the kitchen, soon followed by the distant ambient noises of food preparation as he cozies up under his duvet. His heart rate slowly eases, as does his blush, the longer he goes without the android’s presence but Hank knows just paces away he’s still there.

It’s been over a decade since Hank can remember anyone being concerned enough to want to take care of him, since he’s had anyone close enough to him to fill the job of a personal nurse, and the notion that this time around it’s an android and a coworker has him thrown for a bit of a loop. He’s not averse to Connor’s company and he hasn’t been for several months, not since before the revolution, but this feels… different. It’s newer, scarier ground that Hank isn’t sure he wants to tread on but Connor doesn’t seem to share that trepidation in the least.

 _That’s because he’s just being kind,_ that little voice returns to say, and Hank tries to tune it out but it persists. _He doesn’t feel for you the way you feel for him, or wasn’t that obvious?_

His frown is quick to form, and even though he casts the thought away it pervades his overheated mind and sticks like putty. He knows his own flaws—they’re numerous enough that he’s left no other choice but to acknowledge them—and they’re deal-breakers for most people, never mind an android with limitless options for dating. Hank has come to terms with himself and his ways but these days it’s a little harder to meet his own reflection in the mirror with people like Connor in his life, striving for him to be more, to be _better_ for himself and others.

He’s still frowning, still dwelling when Connor returns with a steaming soup bowl on a large plate, a spoon and two pills in one hand and a tender, tiny smile curling his lips up at the corners. It thaws the cold truth of Hank’s thoughts to let in the warmth of his partner’s expression, one he’s rarely seen and never in mixed company. _It’s just for me,_ he thinks errantly, but quickly dismisses it.

Connor sits on the bedside and hands the plate to Hank, who takes it and the pills and sets it delicately on his lap. He doesn’t relinquish the spoon when Hank reaches for it, though, and he quirks an eyebrow at the android. “I sort of need a utensil, Connor,” he prods.

“Are you well enough to feed yourself?” Connor asks him, diverting his statement entirely.

“Am I—” Hank blinks, and then scowls. “For Christ’s sake, I’m not _dying_. Give me the damn spoon.”

Connor’s lips twitch, but he hands the spoon over without comment.

Thankfully, as Hank gets a whiff of the chicken noodle soup his gut only does a minor cartwheel so he has no qualms about spooning up a mouthful and sipping it gingerly. It hits bottom, spreading heat nicely through his centre, and Hank huffs out a little breath of relief when it doesn’t stir up too much mayhem in his empty stomach.

Sitting beside him Connor looks expectant and apprehensive, an odd look for a state-of-the-art forensic android who’s kicked ass and taken names on several occasions, and after taking the pills with his second spoonful Hank murmurs a quiet, gracious, “It’s good. Thank you.”

In the familiar scene of his bedroom, the only sound being that of his slurping and sniffling, Connor’s small, elated smile seems drastically brighter than normal. It’s out of place in his life, that kind of happiness, but Connor’s expression doesn’t wane as he studies Hank’s face intimately, brown eyes warm with an emotion Hank dares not name, eloquent in ways that are foreign to him from years and years of social hermitude.

He can’t hold Connor’s eye for longer than a few seconds before his gaze dips down to his bowl again, a voracious blush blossoming over his face and broadcasting his fluster at such a look. No one’s ever looked at him like _that_ , like he hung the moon, the sun and every last star in the sky, and with that expression on a face like Connor’s he’s hard-pressed to figure out just why it’s being directed at him, of all people.

Knowing that Connor couldn’t possibly be exuding the feelings he’s physically showing doesn’t stop Hank from hoping like _hell_ that he’s not wrong, that Connor isn’t just malfunctioning or that he isn’t in some kind of feverish haze and hallucinating such a tender smile. Connor, professional and amiable, compassionate and just, couldn’t possibly want Hank the way that Hank wants him. Wouldn’t he have seen it by now if he did? Shouldn’t there have been signs? Indications of his inner feelings? Hank glances up to the android’s face again and he’s just as surprised as the first time to see Connor looking right back, and with a sniffle he bolsters whatever’s left of his romantic courage and does some studying of his own.

Welcoming dark eyes search his the moment their gazes lock and Hank is momentarily captivated by the nuances of a face he’s come to know almost as well as his own. Dark and charming brown eyes, an approachable, handsome balance to his features and the curve of his mauve lips are all hallmarks of his expression, regular indicators of what’s going on behind that face. It’s forming the android’s current emotions into a confusing, contradictory combination of things, though—his chocolate eyes can’t seem to find one thing to focus on, darting around Hank’s face, and his bottom lip keeps getting pulled between his teeth before being let go again. Connor’s brows tilt minutely the longer Hank watches his face, down and outward, and if Hank didn’t know any better he’d swear his partner was _nervous_.

“You should eat,” Connor whispers, a bare hint of sound above the thundering of Hank’s pulse.

“I’m full,” Hank replies just as quiet, searching his eyes. He could easily finish the soup since his stomach seems to be content with the choice of food, but instead of admitting that he looks away from Connor long enough to set the plate and bowl aside on the nightstand.

“Lieutenant—” the android begins.

“Come on, Con, don’t force-feed an old man,” Hank mumbles, and watches the begrudging smile flicker over Connor’s lips. “And stop gettin’ some kind of sick pleasure from this,” he adds warningly, but it loses the desired effect when he sniffles afterward.

Connor’s smile softens, the posture of his shoulders loosening just slightly. “I often derive joy from you, Lieutenant.”

The words, while spoken freely and simply, hold a certain measure of emotion to them that Hank couldn’t possibly miss, after knowing Connor so long. Combined with the tender expression on Connor’s face, an expression solely for _him_ , Hank’s heart runs wild in his chest at the connotations that his mind is throwing together, the conclusions he’s coming to that don’t make sense with everything that Hank knows about himself, but… it’s all still the same. That same face looking at him, those same words hanging in the air, and he’s having trouble arguing with the facts when Connor suddenly looks away, breaking their lengthy eye contact to stare at the bedroom wall behind the bed.

Now is the time for Hank to say something equally revealing, something that conveys the depth of his own feelings for his partner like Connor’s just apparently done, but no matter how much he turns his feverish mind over and over he can’t find the right thing to say. He sniffles and lowers his gaze to his blanketed knees, resigned to grasping lamely at something, _anything_ before the moment passes.

“You… you oughta call me Hank.”

Connor’s eyes flit up to his face and instinctively Hank meets them with his own, but once he has he’s stuck neatly between the headboard behind him and the strange quality of the android’s expression. He’s confused, definitely, but beyond that Hank can see that the idea of calling him by his given name hasn’t escaped Connor’s attention.

 _Was it something he hoped for me to say?_ Hank wonders, pathetically and magnetically drawn to the depth of Connor’s eyes as they roam his face. _Has he been waiting for me to tell him it’s okay?_

“Alright… Hank,” Connor says, slow and unsure, but there’s a note of happiness under the surprise Hank can hear.

He smiles, then, and watches Connor’s eyes trace the motion of his mouth. For far, far too long the android’s gaze stays there, unerringly focused on Hank’s lips, and then he says suddenly, as if spooked from a thought, “I… I should take a DNA sample, Lieute—Hank. To properly diagnose your illness.”

“Sure,” Hank says, hardly more than a mumble, before he’s able to really comprehend what he’s allowing. As Connor lifts his hand towards his face it falls into place, though, and Hank stupidly opens his mouth to dispute the action when two warm fingers slide past his lips and over the flat of his tongue.

The touch is abrupt and unusual, but Hank would be lying if he said it was unpleasant. Still, he makes a short, rough noise of surprise and draws back against the pillows but Connor’s already withdrawing his hand again and touching the tips of his fingers to his tongue.

Hank’s fever rises predictably as Connor pauses to process the genetic information. He’s trying to remain indifferent to this new facet of their relationship— _Connor put his fingers in my mouth,_ he thinks with a peculiar, baseless desperation—but he can still feel the slight pressure of fingers on his tongue, can still taste the unique, synthetic but somehow fitting flavour of Connor’s skin, and the simple fact of the matter is that Hank is miles and miles away from being unbiased about this development.

“You’re infected with influenzavirus A,” Connor murmurs, briefly searching his face before looking away. “Top recommended methods for recovery are rest and the ingestion of fluids.”

“Well, I think we got that covered,” Hank replies dryly, sniffling, and watches with relief when Connor’s lips crack into a small smile. Realistically, though, he doesn’t need Connor to be present for him to recover, and the thought sobers him quickly. Although he’s loath to give up the android’s comforting company he still makes himself say, “You know, I can take care of myself. You don’t have to stick around.”

It comes out brusque, rougher than he wanted by a wide margin, but Connor is unperturbed when he looks over. “I know, L—Hank, but I…” He trails off unexpectedly, and then seems to come to a decision and says a little firmer, “I want to be here.”

Hank studies the shift of his expression for what seems like minutes, trying to pin down where he fucked up to put such a downtrodden look on Connor’s handsome face. Even though he’s just asserted that he wants to stay, Connor looks two seconds away from bolting. He’s uncertain and nervous again, and it takes Hank’s influenza-riddled mind too long to realize that his partner thinks Hank wants him gone.

“I want you here, too.” The sentence falls out more than Hank actually says it, but as he watches Connor’s face he sees the return of the soft, private smile that he’s quickly becoming addicted to. The smile grows, though, the longer that they look at each other, and with every passing moment he can peer farther into those warm, dark eyes that spell out more emotion than either of them could ever say aloud.

On the bedding next to his hip Connor’s hand rests, perfectly still over the blankets, and while he still has the courage Hank lifts his hand to cover Connor’s. The android doesn’t react immediately beyond a twitch of his brow, and his gaze darts down to their hands before coming right back up to linger on Hank’s face again. Confusion, surprise, hope and need war across his young face for uninterrupted seconds before that smile parts over white, straight teeth to bite nervously on his lower lip.

Hank sniffles noisily and at once he thinks that the obnoxious sound will shatter the delicate mood, but Connor’s mouth curls up at the corners and his fingers clamp deliberately around Hank’s hotter ones. It kicks his heartbeat into a speedy, uneven and particularly heavy rhythm, that basic touch, leaving Hank to wonder with foreign optimism how he’ll ever handle doing anything beyond holding hands.

“I’m uncertain, Hank,” Connor says into the potent silence, and Hank’s leaden, pounding heart rate doubles in intensity at the low tone, “about the validity of my diagnosis. I think a secondary sample is necessary.”

Hank blinks. “Uh, okay.” He hadn’t really been expecting that.

Connor’s smile turns a shade sly when he looks up to meet Hank’s confused stare. “A direct sample.”

Blinking again, Hank is completely incomprehensive before the word _direct_ makes it through the sick sludge in his brain. A direct sample… from his mouth? Hank’s gaze quickly moves from Connor’s eyes to his lips, and the statement’s truth smacks him squarely in the face.

_He doesn’t need to sample anything. He wants to kiss me._

Like clockwork his face flushes, and his mortification climbs when Connor’s fingers squeeze his. It’s confirmation of Hank’s suspicions, that Connor does in fact like him in return, but that doesn’t mean that Hank’s at all prepared for the real knowledge that Connor _wants him_. “I—I’m sick, Connor, Jesus—”

The excuse falls short when Connor leans a little closer and his words stutter to a halt. “Androids can’t contract viral infections, Hank.” It’s barely more than a whisper, and his soft voice travels down Hank’s spine to settle in his gut where it floats distractingly like an overfilled balloon.

Unable to resist temptation and unable to find a reason why he can’t, Hank nods through his embarrassment and swallows compulsively when Connor lets his hand go to shift closer on the bed. Once he’s moved he takes all the time in the world to lean forward, that same hand lifting to rest lightly at the centre of Hank’s chest. Now that Connor’s touching him there’s no way he hasn’t discovered the brutal beating of his heart, but the android doesn’t mention it or give any indication that he’s noticed it. Instead he simply moves forward until he’s breaching Hank’s personal bubble, the tips of their noses brushing with every one of the human’s laboured breaths, and gently presses his lips to Hank’s.

Instinctively Hank lets his eyes fall shut at the first taxing, tender touch of Connor’s skin, his chest heaving with a rough exhale that has nothing to do with a stuffy nose. The steady, unimpeded weight of Connor’s hand becomes even more disastrous as it slides a slow path up to where Hank’s pulse is racing against his throat, synthetic fingertips idly teasing the flushed skin there, and responsively Hank parts his mouth to let out a tiny, rough sound.

Connor is right there to catch it, copying him and opening his mouth slightly to press it back against Hank’s, this time with a little more force behind it. Lips moving with an expertise Hank is instantly curious about and wary of, Connor’s head tilts with Hank’s to meet his every move, and then some. When Hank peeks his tongue out to taste the seam of Connor’s lips, the android does the same almost immediately and lets his tongue peruse his partner’s mouth with easy grace, leaving Hank’s stomach curling in on itself like a snake and a constant fire sizzling under his skin.

The sounds of Hank’s breaths and the subtle smacking of mouths eases the quiet of the room around them, and somehow without the distraction of anything else to focus on but Connor’s hand, Connor’s lips, Hank is finding it hard to think about the stupidity of this. The stroking tease of fingers along his jugular distracts him from whatever errant thoughts he should be freaking out about, and the press and brush of a careful but eager mouth on his eliminates any doubt that finds its way past his defenses. All he has right now is Connor, all he _knows_ is Connor and when he lifts his hands to clench them in the fabric at the android’s waist the automatic arch of Connor’s back is its own reward.

Even though he would rather suffocate, Hank starts to pull back when his breathing is getting a bit too energetic. He does it gradually, easing the kiss back into chaste territory, slowing the pace of their mouths with Connor following his lead until he can lean back against the pillows to stare at his partner.

Connor’s eyes are wide, his LED a constant yellow—processing—and his hand on Hank’s body has paused to rest immobile against his collarbone. Big brown eyes, full of so much emotion that it makes Hank ache to be young again, study his face with a reverence that Hank feels to his very toes. His clammy hands, wrinkling the fabric of Connor’s jacket, release the android’s clothes and instead smooth beneath it to curl around the waistband of his black pants.

For long, breathless (on Hank’s part) moments they stare at one another, until Hank sniffles loudly and breaks the timorously charged mood hanging between them. Mortification possesses Hank in one swift wave but Connor just smiles, though, that same unique smile, and plucks some tissues from the box on the nightstand to hand to Hank.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and loudly blows his nose. When he leans back again, tossing the crumpled tissues at the waste basket by the door—and missing—he asks Connor with a hesitancy he’s unused to, “So… what’s the verdict? About the, uh, the virus.”

Connor blinks at him, his small smile immovably in place, and replies in a soft voice, “Inconclusive. I think I’ll require much more data to confirm.”

“How, uh… How much data?” Hank persists. He’s being too brave, too keen as he meets Connor’s dark eyes and searches them for answers, but with Connor doing the exact same to him, with what just happened, he thinks they’re both being pretty damn brave.

“A great deal more.” Connor’s body shifts closer on the bed, his smile simultaneously coy and devilish as his palm slips around the back of Hank’s neck. “It’s imperative for your recovery that you be properly diagnosed.” The coyness leaves his expression, devilry taking over wholeheartedly when he murmurs, “Shall we get started?”

Hank can’t help the little laugh that escapes his chest or the crooked grin he gives his partner. “Yeah,” he says with a sniffle and watches Connor’s smile, the one that’s just for him, brighten his face like a sunrise. “No time to waste.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated <3


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